Aftermath
by CaptainSammish
Summary: In the immediate aftermath of the last battle, the survivors struggle to pick up the pieces. Rated 'T' for graphic death and thematic elements.
1. Chapter 1

A/N - For the record, I started writing this fanfiction about the aftermath of the last battle before the sixth book came out. It took me a long time to get around to finishing it, and I've discovered that I no longer think Harry will survive the battle. In any case, here's the story, whether you think it'll happen this way or not. I feel really good about how the canons turned out in this one, so let me know what you think if you've got time to review. Three chapters in all, make sure to read them all!

_Disclaimer: If I owned anything related to Harry Potter, I wouldn't be sitting here writing fanfiction, would I?  
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Isolated._ That was how he felt. Completely and totally severed from the destruction around him, as though it wasn't real. He stood on the singed and war-torn grounds of what had once been Hogwarts and which was now but a smoldering ruin, like the muggle wreck that it had pretended to be for so many years. No disguise of any kind had saved it in the end. Harry didn't even want to know how many had been inside when it had collapsed, how many now lay dying or dead beneath its mighty walls. He had his hands full with the death he could see – he did not want to test the fragility of his emotions by going in search of more. Corpses, the delicate husks of humanity, lay all around - some he recognized, some he did not. Their silence frightened him more than anything he had ever known. Even worse was the moans of the wounded, those who would not live to see aid come but needed it so badly.

Forcing his frozen limbs to break free of the grief that weighed them down, Harry began to slowly wind his way through the bodies, searching for the inevitable. He could not stand to know, but at the same time desperately needed to be sure.

There – no, but that was Ginny. The flash of red hair that he'd seen out of the corner of his eye was now soiled and dirty, but there was nothing unrecognizable about the young face it bordered. Ginny, who had insisted that she be allowed to come along, and even when she was told to stay behind somehow managed to join her friends and family. She would be happy, Harry thought, to have contributed. She belonged with the rest of her family, anyway. It would be unfair to her if she had lived and the rest had not.

Not twenty paces away, Harry nearly felt his knees buckle when he came across the sprawled body of Remus Lupin, and, barely three feet away from that, the slain form of Peter Pettigrew. Harry did not realize he was crying until the warm saltiness of the tear stung his lip. He almost didn't notice when Peter twitched and opened his eyes.

"James…" he moaned, staring at Harry through pain-stricken eyes. Harry recoiled, his face contorted in a mix of terrible anger and despair that he'd never felt before, not even after Sirius had died. He did nothing as Peter coughed, blood dribbling out of his mouth. He did not move even as spasms racked the man's body and finally stopped just as his shallow breathing wore out. Only when Peter was dead did Harry take another step away, and then another, faster and faster until he was running – where to, he had no idea.

Falling to his knees in one of the rare patches of unstained grass, Harry struggled to breathe. Suddenly, he pitched forward onto all fours and vomited until his stomach was empty. Breathing heavily, he leaned on one hand while he wiped his mouth on the back of the other and squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn't handle this… couldn't take it…

At that moment, movement nearby caused him to jerk his head up, staring about wildly. A dark figure caught his eye as it stumbled among the corpses, moving strangely, Harry thought, until he realized that whomever it was, was clutching their stomach while a crimson stain spread from around their hands and soaked the surrounding material. Suddenly, the figure's hood jerked off, and Harry met the man's frightened silver eyes.

_Draco Malfoy._

Harry scrambled to his feet, but at once knew that Draco no longer posed any kind of threat. He watched his once-enemy stop, breathing shallowly and shutting his eyes in pain. It surprised him when Draco spoke, since the other young man showed no sign of acknowledging his presence.

"Good… fight, Potter," he said, fighting to breathe in between words. Whomever had wounded him had done a thorough job. Harry tried to speak, but found he could not. What would he say? Malfoy apparently took this as encouragement, and continued, "I saw… you fighting… the Dark Lord…" He opened his eyes and his gaze locked on Harry's own. "You were… underestimated."

Harry watched, flabbergasted, as Malfoy nodded his farewell and half-walked, half-staggered into oblivion – for Harry, at least. They would never meet again, and Harry never thought to ask what had become of the blond Slytherin. There were other things on his mind that day.

Moving on, Harry felt dizzy as he stepped carefully to avoid coming in contact with any human remains. There was too much here for him to handle, he knew. He was numb now, but later, when this was all over and things returned to normal, emotions would flood over him – but no. Nothing ever would return to normal. Harry's world was permanently and indelibly changed. He would never again be able to pick up all the pieces. They were scattered to the too far and wide for him to ever search them out and painstakingly put them back together. Life as he knew it was over. A new era had begun.


	2. Chapter 2

"Harry!"

Harry almost ignored the cry. He had staggered to a stop against a tree that was half-burnt and twisted against the sky. Dimly, he opened his eyes and saw a figure hurrying toward him.

"Harry? Harry! Thank God. Come on now, survivors are reassembling at the Headquarters."

"Tonks?"

"Yes, Harry. I – you haven't seen…?"

There was too much hope in her eyes for Harry to crush it that easily. He found he didn't have the strength. "I haven't."

"Oh. Well, maybe he'll be back at the Headquarters when we get back," Tonks said with a false cheerfulness. Harry had never seen her look this worried or glum since she'd been mooning over Lupin to begin with. Harry realized that it was not only _his_ life that had undergone great, catastrophic changes. _Please, don't let it destroy us,_ was his only thought as he gripped Tonks' arm, too weak to apparate on his own, and felt himself hauled once more into darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

When Harry awoke some time later, it was Mr. Weasley who sat in the corner of his room at the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. Harry blinked as he drew on his glasses and took a deep breath. Everything that had happened was crowing into his mind all at once, a distant throbbing that he couldn't ignore.

"Mr. Weasley," he said quietly. The older wizard jumped, and nodded gravely when he realized that Harry was now awake.

"Molly will be wanting to know you're up," he said. "She's been upset lately, and if you hadn't made it, it would have been just one more blow. Are you feeling well enough to come downstairs?"

Harry nodded slowly in response. "I think so." He swung his feet over the side of the bed, got up and padded across the room. He realized with a start that he was wearing an old pair of Ron's pyjamas.

"Sorry about that," Mr. Weasley said, as he followed Harry out of the bedroom and down the hall. "Your stuff was lost with the rest of Hogwarts. Ron obviously didn't mind you using his."

Harry's heart jumped. "Ron? He's alive, then?"

Mr. Weasley nodded wearily. "Hermione made it through as well. There are others, too many to name, who weren't as lucky."

Harry was silent as they descended the stairs and made for the kitchen. Suddenly, as he neared the door, Harry found that he was dreading entering it. Nothing he had faced during the last battle could prepare him for this. But he had to know so many things; the outcome of the battle, who had survived and who hadn't, what was going to happen now, and countless other questions. Taking a deep breath, he silently pushed open the door and was greeted by the sight of a rather disheveled-looking Percy, glasses half-on and half-off with the tell-tale soot marks on his robes that spoke of the floo network. The next thing Harry noticed was that Percy was staring down his nose at a grief-stricken Fred Weasley, who was sitting in a chair with his head in his hands. It dawned on Harry that George was nowhere to be seen. Could it be…?

"I told you this would happen," Percy sniffed, albeit quietly. "I warned you that this whole _Order_ business would do you no good. I - "

"Shut _up_, Percy," Ron said from the other side of the table. Percy began to stutter indignantly until Fred raised his head from his hands, an extremely ugly expression on his face. What he said he said so quietly that Harry had to strain to hear, but there was no mistaking what the words were from the looking on Percy's face afterward.

"I wish you were dead instead of him."

There was a shocked silence in the kitchen.

"Fred," Mr. Weasley said quietly. "What a terrible thing to say."

Percy's jaw was working. He opened his mouth to say something, but Ron stood up.

"Get out," he said, his voice deadly soft. Percy stared, mouth agape, then turned and stalked out of the kitchen. A moment later, there was the _whoosh!_ of a fireplace in the other room, and then silence. Ron sat down, his face etched with exhaustion and the faintest trace of exhilaration from having told off Percy at last. Fred had once again buried his head in his hands, and Mr. Weasley was leaning against the wall, his eyes closed. Harry knew why Ginny was not present, but had no idea about Charlie and Bill and didn't dare ask. A terrible sadness struck him. This family, all so good and so generous with what little they had, all so good-natured and kind-spirited (with the exception of the stingy Percy) had been ripped apart. There would never be another time when they would all sit around the table, sharing stories and laughter. Harry found himself yearning for the days back at the Burrow, for quidditch scrimmages in the yard, for dinners shared as the sun was setting. He yearned for sound, for noise, even for the empty sound of someone screaming. But all there was was silence.


End file.
